Promise
by Caliente
Summary: [EDITED 06/2010] Northstar-centric one-shot vignette set during his tenure at the X-Mansion –– He loved. He lost. He hurt. It passed. Today—he remembers. A story about Jean-Paul's family loyalties... and his friend's to him. –– WARNING: past canon death


**Author's Note:** Gift!fic for my good pal Rhys. There's not really that much to say about this story other than it's not really bound by any sort of canon beyond taking place during Jean-Paul's time at the X-Mansion. (You know, before Wolverine killed him and they blew it up.) Hasn't been beta'd but try not to hold that against me. ;) Cheers!  
**Disclaimer: **Characters mentioned are used without permission and are trademarks of Marvel Characters, Inc. I do not own them and am simply borrowing for my purposes. Please don't sue.

**Promise  
**by, Caliente

She was everything to him. Every. Damn. Thing. For the man who had never needed anybody in his entire life, not even his sister or adoptive father (at least, that's what he told himself these days; nearly believed it, too), _she_ was everything. The smallest, most perfect, delicate, beautiful, innocent everything there ever was. That missing piece of himself that he could never quite find within—it was her. (The irony, irritating thought it might be, was not lost on him.)

In truth, the way she completed him was just another of the million things he loved about her. Everything she did, everything she was—he loved it all. Every little bit. He had never loved anybody—any_thing_ as much as he loved her. (Not even himself, though he was certain some of his teammates would fight him on that count.) And he knew he never would. He loved her so much, it hurt.

It used to hurt every minute of every hour of every day. So much so that, at times, it was a struggle just to breathe. Then, one day, it hurt a little less. Just the tiniest bit less and only for an instant but it made all the difference. For that one moment, he remembered what it was like not to hurt. He remembered what his life was before he'd met her. When he'd simply been young and angry. Angry with the team, his sister, the _world_—but not hurt.

After that moment, single and lonely in time, he felt something new, something far worse than the hurt: guilt. He felt guilty for that second he didn't hurt enough. Guilty that he'd almost-maybe-but-not-really forgotten. He knew it was a lie—he could _never_ forget her—but he was afraid. (And he didn't _do_ afraid, not even when facing the Canadian super-threat of the week. Or maybe that was especially…) Afraid that if he forgot her, then she'd really be gone. For good. _Forever_.

He could never live with himself if he let that happen, so he made her a promise that day. He promised her that he would never, _ever_ forget. Because, eventually, he knew the hurt would dull away. Not even he could punish himself every second of every day forever. He loved her—that was never in question. But he knew eventually he'd have to start living his life again. So, he offered her what he could, just as he'd done while they were together.

That was what brought him here today. Standing tall and proud (and quite handsome, if he did say so himself) in his finest black Armani suit with a borrowed umbrella held over his head as the rain splattered around him. There was mud on his once shiny black leather shoes and the cuffs of his pants that he didn't notice. Any other day he would've been horrified but not today. Today the only thing that mattered was her. And the only thing he could see was her gravestone looming in front of him.

He'd been standing there, staring at her stone, for a long stretch of time. Not that he minded because these moments, they were hers. This day, every year—it was all for her. He hated this day, the anniversary of her death, for the reminder of how she'd been taken from him. But she deserved this from him. No, she deserved more. She always had. But she'd been stuck with him then, all those years before, and she was still stuck with him now. (The irony was, again, not lost on him.)

From behind him, he heard the sounds of footsteps trudging through the mud of the cemetery. He ignored them. Nothing was more important than her. _Nothing_. And nothing would distract him from his time with her. It was always too short. (So few hours to fit in so much self-punishment.) There was never enough hurt, never enough guilt. Never enough remembering just how perfect she'd been. He'd never been able to have enough when it came to her.

A hand landed gently on his arm and he finally dragged his eyes from her gravestone. He looked down at the small hand first, then moved his gaze the person attached to it with clouded eyes. She looked back up at him with a sympathetic but defiant smile—as if daring him to tell her to leave. He blinked and looked around. Familiar bodies stood around her grave, dressed in their Sunday best, heads bowed in remembrance of a girl few of them had ever known.

The small hand reached up and gently wiped his cheek. Wet. Blinking again, he touched his cheek in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time—because he didn't…

He sniffed lightly and composed himself, returning his gaze to the gravestone again. He could feel a few of the others spare glances toward him, their eyes full of questions, but no one said a word. Words weren't needed just then. The hand never dropped from his arm, though. It served as a silent reminder that he wasn't alone—not _really_. (No matter how hard he tried to push them all away.)

Some time passed, though how much he couldn't be certain, before he straightened. He offered her memorial a slow nod, silently renewing his promise to return the next year. And every year following until he joined her in the next plot. Then he turned slowly, the hand on his arm finally falling away as he did so, and headed for his sports car. The others followed suit quietly. No one was surprised by his actions. They hadn't come for words or a show—they'd come for him. And for her, though most had never met her.

One by one, two by two, they all filed away with mud squishing beneath their shoes as they went. Until all that was left behind were footprints that quickly filled with water, a beautiful bouquet of white roses that he'd laid next atop the gravestone when he'd first arrived, and the stone itself. It stood out in the rain, the water washing over its shiny white exterior, dripping off the engravings as it silently reminding the world of all it had lost when it'd lost her.

_Joanne Beaubier  
Beloved daughter  
May she rest in peace._


End file.
